


There's a scar on his shoulder

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, vague porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s an ache in the scar on his shoulder that feels like absolution when the angel touches his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a scar on his shoulder

There’s a scar on his shoulder.

He tells his brother that he doesn’t remember anything. That he can’t hear the dirge of screams and the hopeless wailing. That he can’t feel a knife slicing into his body, into his soul, rending him apart. That he doesn’t know the satisfaction he held deep inside himself when he was the one to pick up instruments. That he doesn’t remember the bright hot light that seared away everything around him until he was submerged in this presence that violently ripped layers of hell away that were wrapped around him and forcefully pulled him and stretched him and remade him until he was gasping for air in a wooden box with dry lungs. He does remember, in bits and pieces, mostly in the ghosts of sensations that haunt his dreams. There’s no way he can’t remember when there’s a scar on his shoulder and all he knows of who laid it there is a burning wrath that took him from his work.

There aren’t any more marks on his body, none of the familiar scars of a life that left him well used and scarred. His skin is smooth and new, the only mark left on him is a reminder of that place, a handprint scar on his shoulder that’s angry and red and raised. He could trace the outline of it in the dirt with his fingers for how many times he’s traced it’s outline on his body. He wants to rip it off, to cover it with new scars that are his, that he knows, scars that mean hunts and saving people and fighting alongside his brother. Not this. Not this scar that reminds of what he had become in hell and just how far he’d sunk.

There’s an ache in the scar on his shoulder.

When the psychic lays hands on his shoulder to call out the creature that put the scar there, he can feel a faint ache deep in the muscle and he doesn’t know what kind of creature could of done this, what sort of monster would burn out a woman’s eyes, could have the power to bring him back from the dead. He’s not sure that he wants to know but he has to. And when he meets this thing that’s not any monster or demon or creature he’s known before in a barn where the lights blow out, he can feel it, an ache in the scar on his shoulder like a recognition, a power calling to him, so he does what a Winchester does when faced with a vast and unknown power, he stabs it.

It’s an angel. And it takes a long time for him to wrap his head around the whole mess, of the existence of angel’s and the fact that they want him for whatever messed up reason when he’s dirtied his hands in the worst kind of ways and there’s nothing about him that deserves anything but hell. When the angel steps too close, lays a hand over his shoulder, tilts his head in quiet curiosity and stares straight through him, he wonders if the angel feels it too, feels this quiet thrumming like a plucked thread between that reverberates in his shoulder and then down, down, down into him to places he doesn’t want to acknowledge having.

There’s an ache in the scar on his shoulder that feels like absolution.

Their contact is brief at first and tense. The angel has no sense of personal space, and he wonders sometimes if the guy is purposefully trying to rile him, if the angel can even feel what’s happening, if he knows that the scar aches when he touches it and that it makes something warm and heavy spread out from it. He doesn’t like this connection that he doesn’t understand and can’t control, so he ignores it, he tries to drink it away and tries to fuck it out of his system with other people. His brother’s a blood junkie and the seals are breaking one after another faster than they can even blink, so he tells himself he doesn’t have time to think about it, that it’s insignificant. That doesn’t work too well. The further he tries to step back from the angel, the closer the other presses in, and everything aches deep into his bones, deep into the spaces that are hollow and wanting. 

He spreads his legs like a whore because he feels empty inside, and he wants to be used and he wants to be useful. Maybe he’s angling for punishment, because the angel is the only one that really knows, that had seen and touched, just what he was and what he did. He craves a violent touch like it would be a penance, like he could repay his wrongs and the pain he’s wrought by taking more on himself. But even though he turns out the lights before he lays on the bed, there’s the flickering neon and street lights that come through blinds that never seem able to close all the way, and the angel lights up from the inside, some sort of blue white in his eyes when he lets his guard down and he never closes them, just watches. There’s no disgust, no punishment, no judgment. He only ever sees reverence and he can’t stand it, but the familiar ache in the scar on his shoulder burns when the angel touches it, it’s painful but it makes his body course with this energy that’s not his own and it feels like absolution and even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it he needs it, he wants it, he takes it greedily.

There’s an ache in the scar on his shoulder that feels like absolution when the angel touches his soul.

They’re hurling towards an ultimatum they all refuse to accept, towards an apocalypse they won’t surrender to, towards a destiny they turn their backs on. Sometimes he doesn’t even believe himself when he tries to tell them all that they’re fighting the good fight and doing this for the right reasons. There’s an angel on their side who’s turned a back to his brothers and raised arms against them because of a crisis of faith catalyzed by an absent father, and doesn’t he just know how that goes, so he’s there with a bottle and a little warmth even if he doesn’t have the right words he has other things he can do with his mouth. He needs the comfort too, there’s little of it to go around anymore.

In the darkness that’s never dark enough to hide, he pulls the angel down to bury his face in the other’s neck so he doesn’t have to see the affection in grace glowing eyes that are raw and open. He buries his face and tangles their limbs together and his breath catches thick in his throat, burning in his lungs, stinging in the corner of his eyes. He can feel that ache in the tight skin of his scar, the pleasure of the connection of their bodies, but more than that, more than warmth and naked skin and fingertips it’s there deep deep in places he thought were hollow that might just be where his soul is, thrumming with the touch of an angel’s grace and yearning for things he hasn’t the tongue to name. The worst part about it that he’d deny to his last breath is that he’s starting to believe, in the absolution and the blessing, when the angel reaches into him beyond the surface of their entanglement and cradles his soul with blistering energy.

There is no longer a scar on his shoulder and the hollow loss of it is a more painful absence than it’s presence ever was.

He dies. Again. And he’s brought back to life, again, by the power of an angel. It’s different this time, this time he comes back again smooth and clean, unmarred, even the scar on his shoulder that had faded a little but still stood stark against tan freckled skin, it’s not there. He doesn’t know why, but he knows the distance had been growing steadily between them for a while now. He wonders when the turning point was, or if it was a series of too sharp bends that sent them off the road, the why and the how aren’t there, but the sense of betrayal is, sharp and thick in the back of his throat.

There’s no ache in his shoulder, in his soul, he feels no resonance any more in the angel’s presence, and the other is closed off and cold to him, secretive, like it’s never been, like they never were and never will be. He doesn’t understand it, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to. He holds his head up high and he slogs forward through the muck and gore of his life. Fingers can still trace the exact shape that used to be, but it’s not there anymore, it’s just a hollow loss, a negative exposure, painful in a still way and feeling out place for the absence of feeling.


End file.
